by Lisa Wingate
“I’m fine!” I snapped, still holding the fold-up seat like a weapon. “I’m just sick of people who …” Who take advantage of a child’s desperate need for love. “ … who go around …” Living by their own rules, taking things just because they feel like it, no matter who it hurts. “… shooting dogs.”
“What?” His head snapped back like an oversize yo-yo. “Lady, I wasn’t going to shoot the dog.”
“Yes, you were,” I shrieked, waving a finger toward Jimmy, feeling nearly out of my mind with exhaustion and pent-up anger. “Don’t even try to deny it. Jimmy the Kid over there told me. I know what you were doing. What do I look like—an idiot?”
His expression said, Well, actually, yes.You look like a crazy lady in the middle of a deserted highway threatening a perfect stranger with a stadium seat. Swallowing whatever he was going to say, he braced his hands on his hips and turned halfway around, silencing the cowboys, who had started to chortle and snort. “Jimmy, did you tell this lady I was going to shoot the dog?”
Red-faced, Jimmy shrugged. “Well … I … It was … Dan … Dan said you said to shoot the dog.”
The boss stiffened, some unreadable emotion crossing his features. Anger? Guilt? Embarrassment at all of this being brought out in front of a third party? He seemed to think carefully about what to say, then finally bit out a tight-lipped, “I didn’t tell anyone to shoot the dog.”
Jimmy looked down at his hands uncertainly.
“I’ll bet,” I heard myself mutter.
The boss put on an impassive mask and turned back to me. “Ma’am—”
“No … just …” Backing away, I hatcheted a hand between us, my emotions being sucked down a backwash now that the immediate crisis was over. I felt ridiculous, exhausted, confused, suddenly unsure of myself. It was hard to tell what was real anymore. “You know what … ? Never mind. No blood. No foul. The dog is fine. Whatever.” I didn’t care what his explanation was. I just wanted to get out of there. My emotions were sliding out of control again. I had a feeling I’d just made a complete fool of myself.
Opening the car door, I tossed the stadium seat into the back and glanced at the clock. Ten fifteen. Great. I couldn’t do anything right anymore. “I’m late. Good-bye. I’ll take the dog with me.”
A glint of sunlight from the car windshield slid beneath his hat as he stepped closer, squinting doubtfully at me. “You might want to—”
“I think I can handle it,” I interrupted, in a hurry to be out of there before the situation degenerated any further. A dark-colored pickup was barreling across the pasture toward us, and Jimmy the Kid looked worried. “It’s just a dog,” I added.
The boss raised his straight, dark brows, looking at me like I was nuts. “That’s a Great Pyranees sheepdog mix. They aren’t pets. That one—”
“Good, because I’m not looking for a pet.” I cut him off before he could tell me again that the dog had run his cattle through the fence. Next thing he’d be asking me to pay for the damage. Not that I could have. With the legal bills and taking this unexpected time off work, I was pretty well tapped out.
Bracing his hands on his hips, he drew back to his full height, smiling slightly … appreciatively, I thought, though I couldn’t imagine why. I could picture what I looked like, standing there after twenty-four hours with little sleep and no shower, wild tendrils of brown hair flying all around my face. I felt like something off O Pioneers!—Ma all haggard and exhausted after a battle with the wilderness, forced to confront unfriendly natives.
Another hostile had just arrived in a pickup, jumped out, slammed the door, and was headed our way. With wrinkled, leathery skin, beady, dark eyes, and thin lips pressed into a severe frown, he looked like the type to shoot a helpless dog. He paused to talk to Jimmy, who, judging from the body language and hand motions, was telling him the whole story, complete with the bit about the umbrella and the stadium seat.
I turned back to the boss. “Well, like I said, I think I can handle it.” My fingers closed on empty air as I reached for the door handle.
“Door’s open,” he said.
“No kidding.” I felt like an awkward teenager at a middle school dance.
“Your partner’s eating something in there.” His gaze cut toward the vehicle, then back to me. He delivered a broad, white smile that might have been charming in any other circumstances, but right now the old guy with the bad attitude was finishing up with Jimmy and heading toward us. “Hope it’s not your checkbook.”
“My checkbook wouldn’t make much of a meal.” Glancing into the vehicle, I could see that the dog was, indeed, consuming a half-eaten honey bun, wrapper and all, and sniffing the container of leftover grits on the dashboard.
The boss shook his head, clearly ready to abandon me to my fate. “Good luck.” He tipped his hat before turning to meet the surly-faced cowboy. “Well, Dan, you missed all the excitement,” he said, as if he couldn’t see the stiff-armed posture and the man’s murderous glare aimed at my car.
“There’s gonna be some excitement when I git my hands on that dog.” The older man’s voice was rough, his tone gravely serious. I slid closer to my vehicle.
“Leave it be, Dan.” The boss walked back to his horse, picked up the reins, and prepared to mount.
Bristling, Dan pulled off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Like heck I will. We been trying to git that mutt took care of for a week. I ain’t letting him drive off with some half-cocked dogoodin’ out-of-town city woman who’ll probably turn him loose a mile down the road. That dog’s got to be took care of before he can do any more damage around here. Old Neville down the road’s missin’ three baby goats. Mrs. Bradshaw’s got a tore-up vegetable garden. I hear he broke into some lady’s house in town, scared her and her kids half to death; then he raided the potluck at the Baptist church. Yesterday, that mutt jumped Mrs. Horn’s fence and got after her best border collie female, not to mention all that ruckus in town when he stole the beef from the locker plant, and now we’re gonna be fixin’ fence and sewin’ up cattle from now till next Tuesday.”
“Then we’d better get to it.” The boss climbed onto his horse with the authority of a man who assumed his orders would be followed. Leaving Dan standing in the road, he pointed at Jimmy and the other cowboys, who, so far, hadn’t said a word. “Go ahead and get the cattle penned and sorted. I’m late for an appointment with the windmill salesman at headquarters. I’ll bring some penicillin and sutures when I come back.” He glanced at Dan, who was still eyeing my vehicle with his nostrils flaring. “See what you can do about the fence. Looks like you’ve got wire in your truck. I’ll bring some T posts and a driver after a while.”
Yanking a pair of gloves from his back pocket, Dan turned to the other cowboys, his shoulders clenched. “You heard the man. Git to work.” He walked away, muttering under his breath, “Stupid son of a …” It was hard to tell whether he was talking about his boss or the dog.
Watching him go, I reached for the car door and realized again that it was already open. Climbing in, I slammed the door, trying not to look as stupid as I felt. In the passenger seat, the dog thumped his tail and investigated me with a slobbery sniff.
“No! Now stop,” I scolded, pushing him back to his side of the car. “Just … just stay over there. You smell … disgusting.” My stomach rolled over. No wonder the cattle had stampeded.
Sensing that he wasn’t welcome here, either, the dog turned to face the front window and emitted a huge sigh. The hopelessness of the sound resonated within me, touching that part that could identify with wandering lost in a world unfamiliar and unfriendly.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered, pulling back the mat of weeds and hair and looking into the sad, bewildered eyes underneath. Brown eyes, like Sydney’s, heavy with a need I couldn’t fulfill. I couldn’t be this dog’s owner, any more than I could be Sydney’s dad. Nor could I make the need go away. The desires of the heart are what they are, no matter how long you try to deny them.
Outside, the cowboys backed their horses off the road, and Dan stalked to his pickup, then disappeared in a hail of uprooted grass and roadside gravel. The men on horseback stood looking at me like I was an alien presence about to blast off for my home planet.
I rolled down the window as I passed them. “How do I get to the Hawthorne House?”
Jimmy delivered a grin that was genuinely grateful. “Through town, on your right, just across from the Sale Barn Café. Can’t miss it, ma’am.”
“All right … well …” Thanks? Thanks for what? My car smelled like the inside of a sewer. “ ’Bye.”
“Good luck, ma’am.” Something in his tone worried me. As I rolled up the window, he leaned over and whispered something to the cowboy next to him and both of them laughed.
The drive to San Saline seemed longer than seven miles, but in the dash, Gertie was once again pleased with our progress. She rang in, “Destination four miles.”
My copilot jumped in his seat, then stuck his head forward and sniffed the dash.
“Estimated time to destination, six minutes,” Gertie went on.
Jerking back, the dog stuck its head out and let out a baritone bark that rumbled through the car like thunder.
Gertie went on, completely unfazed. “Estimated arrival time, ten thirty-five.”
“Ten thirty,” I muttered, checking the clock on the dash. The dog rescue had made me terribly late. Not only that, but I still had a dog to get rid of. Collie would never believe my reason for not being on time. I pictured arriving at the newspaper office, saying, “Sorry I’m late, Col. I had to stop out on some deserted highway and rescue this huge, hairy stray dog. No kidding. The thing was the size of a small pony and had jaws like something off Wild Kingdom… .”
Collie would never buy it. Neither would Sydney, when I put it in tonight’s e-mail. They would all think I was making it up, covering for some lapse in time, during which I pulled over to the side of the road and sat staring into space, unable to function… .
Rolling down the windows, I let the fresh breeze chase away stale air and unhappy thoughts. My passenger barked approval and stuck his head out. The unibrow sailed upward in the breeze, giving him a surprised look as his jowls flapped, fanning into a gigantic smile.
I felt a tickle in my stomach, heard a puff of air press past my lips, and suddenly I was laughing for the first time in weeks. Shaking his head in the wind, the dog sent a shower of slobber fanning back against the Jeep, his face distorted as if he were a pilot undergoing major g-force. I laughed harder, and he barked happily, his tail thumping against the seat.
Gertie must have sensed the unplanned moment of wild abandon, because she piped up on the dash, “One mile to destination.”
I came back to earth as we topped a hill. Below in the valley, the town of San Saline was nestled among the mesquite and wild sage along the San Saba River. Slowing the car, I gazed absently at the outlying pecan farms, their fields neatly groomed beneath towering trees, bright with the fresh growth of a new summer. Near the river, a beekeeper dressed in a protective white suit was harvesting honey, and along the banks three young fishermen, happy to be out of school for the summer, had set up camp on a rock ledge. Lulled into momentary complacency, I smiled at the peacefulness of the scene.
Fortunately, Gertie was still on track. “Proceed point-six miles to B Street,” she commanded, growing more active now that we were entering civilization.
The dog sniffed the dashboard, growling and whining, then lifting a paw and batting the instrument panel.
“Not a fan of GPS, huh?” I said, pushing him away, then hitting the button to turn it off as we passed a park and a small grocery store. “Not much need for Gertie around here, anyway,” I muttered, scanning the tiny town square ahead. It was just as Collie had described in her letters. Ancient, quiet, almost a still life of a town, with a towering German-style limestone courthouse in the center of the square, surrounded by buildings constructed of brick and heavy limestone blocks. Wide porches overhung the sidewalks, offering shade and a resting place on park benches that seemed content to sit idly in front of stores with names from a bygone era—Harbison’s Farm and Home, Dandy Dime, Harvey’s Boots and More, San Saline Dry Goods, Harvey’s Ladies’ Store (sale on new summer dresses, and girls’ sandals two for one). The flowered dresses in the window looked like they’d jumped off the fashion train about 1960 and remained there ever since.
Watching them pass, I had a sense of nostalgia for the quiet days of my childhood. I remembered my mother at the post exchange with other army wives, passing the days trying on dresses like those, waiting for my father to return home from one tour of duty or another. Most of her life was about waiting for my father to come around. She did it with the grace of an angel and the style of a Palmolive ad—the ones in which the mom did dishes in a new dress and pearls. She held everything together through a dozen moves, four children, the ups and downs of an army career, my father’s stubbornness, his battle fatigue and depression, and more homes than I could count. The silverware was polished, the plates were clean, the clothes were ironed, and Mom was smiling, gentle, serene. She never once had a meltdown like I was having now.
If she could have seen me these past weeks, she would have been ashamed. She would have said, Lindsey, what is, is. Sometimes you just have to be patient and trust that the answers will come. In the meantime, wash those dirty dishes.
Mom was a firm believer in doing something useful as therapy for life’s ills.
Beside me, the dog whined low in his throat, resting against the seat. I’d done something useful today. Rescuing a lost dog—that was useful. A random act of kindness. My mother would have approved.
“All right, big boy,” I said, smoothing the hair out of his eyes, watching him blink at the sunlight. “Let’s go by and catch Collie, tell her what’s going on, then find this Hawthorne House and drop you off.”
He batted brown eyes at me just before I dropped the matted brow back into place and made a left turn, circling the square and pulling up in front of the San Saline Record and San Saba County Review office in an old frontier-style building. Beyond the plate-glass windows, the place looked dark, and there was a note taped to the door with my name on it. I retrieved the note and came back to the Jeep to read it.
Lindsey,
Had to go on without you—10:15.
Meet me at Jubilee Ranch. Here’s a map.
—Collie
Below the note was a quickly scrawled map, starting at the Record office, routing west of town through a network of county roads delineated with landmarks like cemetery, big tree, and old church. It looked easy enough to follow, but first I had to get rid of the dog. He was on the driver’s side now, hanging his head out the window, watching me. “Get out of my seat,” I hollered, shooing him as I trotted back to the Jeep. I had a vision of him hitting the gearshift, jumping the curb, and driving through Collie’s front window. “Go on, get out of there.” The last line came in the this-time-I-really-mean-it voice I sometimes used when Sydney didn’t want to do her homework. The mommy voice.
Ducking his head in the window, the dog squeezed back to his own seat, panting happily, ready for our next adventure.
“Oh, no, big guy,” I said. “It’s the end of the line for you. As soon as we find this Hawthorne House, you’re out of here.”
He only stretched out his neck, his big black nose almost touching the ceiling as he yawned and smiled, filling the car with dog breath.
My stomach, now empty of grits, rolled over. “Gross,” I wheezed. “If this lady at the Hawthorne House has a sense of smell, we’re in trouble.”
As it turned out, the Hawthorne House was easy to find, but it wouldn’t have mattered if the proprietor, Jimmy’s mother, had a sense of smell, because the front gates were chained shut with a sign that said, CLOSED FOR WEDDING PREPARATIONS. BACK
FRIDAY.
Friday, which was four days away.
I sat idling in the driveway, wondering how Jimmy Hawthorne could possibly not have known his mother was out of town. Or … maybe he did know, and he was trying to trick me into removing the dog before Dan shot it. Now what? The doggy drop-off spot was closed until Friday. Think. Think. Think. Think of something.
Nothing came to mind. This was absolutely a problem I’d never confronted before. How to get rid of a large, smelly, unwanted dog, the kind of dog that didn’t make a good pet, in a town where you didn’t know anybody and didn’t know your way around. In a hurry.
Not possible, a voice inside me concluded.
Another voice, one closer to my churning stomach, said, Just tie it to the front gate and drive off. Someone will find it. It smells really bad… .
The mommy in me insisted that I couldn’t abandon the poor animal. I let out another long sigh, and the dog sighed with me.
“Any suggestions?” I asked, but of course the dog didn’t answer. “You know, I can’t talk to you with your hair in your face.” It was something I used to say to Sydney when she was younger. As a toddler, her favorite trick was to pull her knees into a ball, tuck her head, let her long sandy brown hair fall down like a curtain, and pretend she was invisible. Eventually, she figured out that, even though she couldn’t see me, I could see her.
“How about this?” Impulsively, I grabbed one of Sydney’s hair bands off the dash, pulled the thick mat of weeds and loose hair away from the dog’s eyes, and gave him a new ’do. He sat blinking at the bright light, the hairball newly secured in a glittery pink Barbie hair band. He looked like a Pomeranian on steroids. “How about we run by the Dairy Queen, and grab a couple of burgers and drinks—I don’t think my stomach can take this much longer—then we go out and meet Collie, so I can get a look at the missing dinosaur tracks. You sit in the truck and promise not to eat anything of mine, and when we’re done, we’ll get Collie to help figure out what to do with you. How does that sound?”